


History, Revised

by numberthescars



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Community: holmestice, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Metafiction, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the spring of 1892, Aloysius Garcia was killed, John Watson was confused, and Sherlock Holmes was in two places at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History, Revised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhuia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhuia/gifts).



> This is basically my attempt to explain the timing of The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge, which Doyle dates to the spring of 1892 – smack in the middle of the Great Hiatus. I’ve taken a few liberties with history for the sake of the story, since (as my wonderful beta informed me) _Wisteria Lodge_ was actually first printed in the States, and only later in _The Strand_. Endless thanks to [tweedisgood](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com/) for her fantastic beta skills and to [rhuia](http://rhuia.livejournal.com/) for the inspiring prompt. Happy holidays!

  
It was our third summer spent at the little cottage we had taken to calling simply, “The Farm.” Summers in Sussex were hot and sun-drenched, as different from the damp and smog of my native London as night and day. Sea breezes flowed regularly through the garden to lighten the air, and the sun stayed bright in the sky until long past the evening hour. This was the idyll to which Holmes and I had retired at the conclusion of our remarkable tenure on Baker Street, in order to, as Holmes aptly put it, “escape the constant rattle of hypochondriacs, busybodies and other ne’er-do-wells knocking at our door.”

To me, the peaceful country life was both soothing and unsettling. Though our tranquil days were balm to an over-burdened body, I found myself prey at times to that desperate craving for risk and excitement so often satisfied, in our early days, through the pursuit of some mysterious criminal. I craved, too, my old self-appointed duty of historian: the feel of a pen in my hand, the blank paper before me and the memory of our most recent adventure providing all the inspiration needed to complete the task. But time had exhausted my recollection, and hardly any cases remained undisclosed. Indeed, the few which remained involved such sensitive matters that I believed they would never be revealed to the public. Of course, my companion might have related some past case in which I had had no part; but he seemed, in recent months, to have put aside his old ways in favor of research in the field of apiology. I had no wish to disrupt this long-anticipated study, so oft remarked upon during our days at Baker Street, nor did I desire to imply that I was anything less than content with our quiet existence in Sussex. Indeed, I was not at all dissatisfied; merely nostalgic, as men of sentiment are wont to become in later years.

The outcome of this state of affairs was that I took to writing accounts of other cases—namely, those undertaken during that terrible period when I thought my friend lost to me forever. The “adventures” of those three years—for they could hardly be compared to the true adventures experienced in his company—were but a shadow of our previous exploits. Out of sympathy, Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade regularly brought me cases with which to entertain myself, but without the stimulation of his brilliant mind and keen wit, I was as dull as ditchwater and twice as shallow.

One such case was the adventure of Wisteria Lodge, which Gregson brought to my attention in the spring of 1892. It featured many of the curious qualities Holmes most appreciated in a case: strange foreigners, hidden identities and a wealth of evidence both baffling and bizarre. Though I had little to do with its eventual resolution, I now amused myself by reinventing the tale as though Holmes had been at my side. I imagined what he would deduce from the flustered client, what theories he might draw from the cryptic note and sinister behavior of the servants. It was a silly exercise, designed to entertain rather than inform, and I was in no doubt that Holmes would chastise me for my folly.

So I attempted to hide this little hobby from my inquisitive companion. A foolish conceit between any two individuals as devoted as Holmes and I, made even more so by my intimate knowledge of his deductive capacities. Yet such a fancy beats at the heart of many a man, and I, as so many others, was not immune to its deceptions. With the writing concealed inside a small leather case (a gift from my late wife, which I thought Holmes unlikely to disturb), I was certain that my secret pastime would remain harmless, a passing summer diversion.

I felt no apprehension, then, when I saw Holmes enter the room late one evening with a sheaf of loose manuscript paper in hand. The untidy scrawl—a doctor’s hand, as even the most untutored observer could deduce—was recognizable at once as my own. Still, I was unconcerned. It could be one of many things: a letter perhaps, or even a journal entry; and such was the nature of our relationship that neither possibility alarmed me.

Holmes crossed before the hearth to his customary seat, drawing the folds of his dressing gown closer to his narrow form. My heart beat faster as he approached, and, though I tried my best to appear unaffected, I fear my hand trembled slightly as I turned a page of the evening paper. The years had been kind to my friend: he had grown gaunter and greyer, but remained in surprising good health despite his careless habits. Even now, he smoked his pipe of an evening and dined with an irregularity that never failed to arouse my concern. I examined him, surreptitiously I thought, under the cover of reading the paper. The bones of his knees were starkly visible through the drape of the dressing gown’s worn material, and the waist, I imagined, seemed more tightly cinched than it had the week before.

Holmes gave a soft chuckle. “I see that I am observed and found wanting. Let me assure you, my dear doctor, that I am in the pink.”  
I closed the paper and folded it against my knee. “I believe you have lost half a stone,” I said. “You ought to take three meals a day, instead of merely breakfast and supper.”

Holmes waved a hand, already bored with the familiar argument. “You know my thoughts on the subject, Watson.”

I smiled to myself, for certainly I did. How many times had he protested that dining even twice daily was “a waste of valuable time and energy”? Many a day, I knew he ate merely to placate me. “And I maintain that a healthy diet is the basis of—”

“—a healthy mind,” concluded Holmes sarcastically. The rebuke was softened, however, by the mischievous smirk playing about his lips. “As it so happens, Watson, I have a query well suited to a ‘healthy mind’ such as yours.”

“And what is it?” I prompted.

“A question of definitions,” said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”

I felt an inkling of foreboding at his words, for the question seemed oddly familiar, but I brushed it aside. “I believe ‘strange’ or ‘peculiar’ both fit the term,” I replied.

His eyes danced with mirth at my answer. “There is surely something more than that, some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible.” I frowned. The sense of déjà vu was intensifying.

“If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert."

At the final word, I sat bolt upright in my chair. “Holmes!” I exclaimed, my nerves afire and my face flushed as the realization struck me. Those lines—so familiar upon his lips, despite never having been uttered aloud before—were the very same ones I had used at the start of my fictional narrative.  
He laughed out loud at my aghast expression. “Really, Watson. Surely you did not expect to keep me in the dark for long?”

“I—I do not know what I expected,” said I, watching apprehensively as he flipped through the short manuscript resting on his lap. I was ashamed to have my foolishness revealed in such a way, and more than a little cross that my privacy had been so thoughtlessly breached. “It is just a whim of mine, of no importance. I hope you did not waste your time in reading it.”

“No, indeed, I found the treatise quite informative,” Holmes remarked, turning to the third or fourth page. “An intriguing case; unique, in many ways.”

“Holmes…”

“Ah, you think I jest,” he said gravely, raising his clear eyes to mine. “But I am quite serious. Though, as usual, your exposition of the facts leaves much to be desired.”

His criticism stung, but I could not suppress my curiosity. “How would you have done it differently?”

He tapped the page with a finger. “Here, you report the contents of the mysterious note: “ _Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. -D,’_ ; and suggest it is a reference to the races or, more likely, an invitation for an illicit tryst. It is clearly nothing of the kind.”

“It is revealed later to be a flag,” I agreed. “Are you saying you should have known from the outset?”

“Immediately,” he said. “According to Eccles, Garcia was associated with the Spanish embassy. But at that very moment, the Spanish government was in turmoil following the Ten Years’ War, and the foreign commission had been recalled to aid in negotiations with the colonies. How likely is it that a blue-blooded Spanish national would remain behind in the English countryside, whilst his countrymen were in trouble? No, the man was clearly not of Spanish origin, though his name, appearance and household all speak of Latin influence. The only possible explanation is that he was of South American extraction, but keen on hiding the connection. Hidden origins, coded notes: does that not speak to you of political intrigue, Watson? Certainly, it was no petty gambling debt, nor assignation that resulted in the young man’s death.”

“My word!” I exclaimed. “The case might have been solved days earlier if we had come to the same conclusion.”

“That is not all,” said Holmes, sounding pleased. “Given the foreign nature of the inhabitants, the strange collection of items discovered at Wisteria Lodge—the mummy, bird, bones and blood—were obviously of spiritual significance. Voodoo, as you note here towards the end. Grotesque indeed, but quite innocent compared with the horrors perpetrated by the despicable Henderson. Or should I say, Murillo?” He glanced back down at the manuscript, frowning at the name. “It is extraordinary good luck that the governess managed to escape unharmed. Had the villains been more resourceful, you would have found yourselves with two bodies, and the culprits long gone from the country.”

I nodded fervently. “How well I know it. But for the lady’s bravery and good timing, all could have been lost. Baynes suspected Henderson, but without solid proof of his involvement, his hands were tied.”

“An unfortunate, yet necessary consequence of official police work. Still, Inspector Baynes shows well,” Holmes added, with uncharacteristic magnanimity. “I regret never having the opportunity to meet such a promising member of the force.” He flipped the page. “And the recruitment of the gardener was marginally clever. I presume that was the good inspector’s doing as well?”

I shook my head. “No. That was my own contribution.”

“Was it?” He sounded surprised.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, I do not doubt you. I merely fail to understand why you bothered to disguise your actions as my own.”

I shrugged, struggling to explain my intentions. “I wanted—that is, it was an exercise. I was attempting to approximate your techniques in my writing. That is all.”

“There is no need for you to adopt my name and likeness to do so,” he retorted. “No, you have some other reason for your actions. Modesty, perhaps? Or is it that you have hopes of publication? My name would certainly ensure a readership.”

I blinked at him in horror. “Of course not! I had no intention of publication—”

“Then it must be modesty,” Holmes concluded logically. “Though it hardly compliments me to put my name to such a sloppy investigation, Watson. You might have thought of that.” I felt a cold fury ignite inside me at the words, cruel logic cutting me to the core. I opened my mouth, but Holmes continued before I could choke out my retort. “A thoroughly substandard approximation of my methods. Had I been there—”

“But you _weren’t_ there, were you,” I snapped, unable to contain the bitter words a moment longer. I glared across at my companion folded in his chair, and, for the first time in our long acquaintance, he seemed small to me.

Holmes looked stunned, as though I had administered a physical strike, rather than a verbal one. Biting my lip to prevent further outbursts, I stood to leave.

Holmes rose quickly to his feet, a hand raised to detain me. “Watson, I…I didn’t realize that you—” he broke off, then began again more hesitantly. “You know why I wasn’t there.”

I remained silent, unwilling to acknowledge his offering, as it was not framed as an apology. What fools, the two of us! Both proud and unyielding, and what one was able to give, the other refused to accept. Over the years, this issue had festered between us, unspoken but ever-present, until my silly little story came along and pierced the surface as a needle lances a boil. Now the wound lay open before my eyes, and while I could claim familiarity with art of mending of flesh and knitting bones, repairing broken promises had never fallen within my expertise.

Holmes seemed similarly at a loss, and he fussed with the hem of his dressing gown in restless unease. When he eventually looked up at me, I saw reflected in his typically sharp eyes something soft and inexplicable. No word could have spoken so eloquently to me as did his eyes just then: they were like wet wool, or feathers settled after a windy day—as though something naturally rough and wild had been dampened or smoothed into a softer state, more docile and housebroken.

“Come to bed, my dear,” he murmured then, taking a step back towards the door. “Let us not part ways in anger tonight.”

And I followed, as I always had.

 

***

 

One morning, nearly a month later, I rose at my customary hour to find Holmes already long awake and working in the garden. I retrieved the evening paper from the day before, thinking to finish an article of interest, and headed towards the kitchen for a cup of tea. But as I entered the small dining room, I was arrested by a strange sight: upon the breakfast table, mingled with the usual detritus of my companion’s meal, there lay a copy of _The Strand_ It had clearly just arrived by post, for the brown paper and string in which it had been wrapped sat crumpled nearby, but the magazine was already open to one of the centre pages. Strange, I thought. Holmes had little patience for literature, and I could see no reason why he would order a copy of the publication for himself. As I moved closer, the text came into view, and I drew a hasty breath in shock. “The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles,” read the title. “An adventure of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as recounted by Dr. John Watson.”

“Holmes,” I whispered, reaching out to touch the glossy page.

“Yes?” The voice came from directly behind me, and I nearly jumped.

“Did you—?”

He smiled down at me and wrapped an arm about my waist. “It is only history, my dear Watson,” he said, planting a kiss on my temple. Warmth spread from our points of contact, flowing though my tired body as I leaned back against him. When he next spoke, the words rumbled through my chest like a heartbeat. “And history is made to be revised.”


End file.
